


Nightingale

by AllTheBellsInVenice



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Dark, Drug Use, Ode to a Nightingale, Other, Suicidality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 11:40:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2506454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheBellsInVenice/pseuds/AllTheBellsInVenice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For my dear kuraschenie, with love.</p></blockquote>





	Nightingale

"Hello, Nightingale," Sherlock said to the black sky, hugging his knobby knees to his chest. The stone steps were chilly under his skinny behind, and the shorts and knee socks Mummy had dressed him in today were doing nothing to stop night's rising cold. 

_Oh, hello, Sherlock,_ Nightingale replied, in her chummy way. Always there for him, as long as Sherlock could remember. _Say, aren’t your mum and dad looking for you?_

“Yeah," Sherlock said. "I don't care." He could hear them calling his name, them and Mycroft with his funny cracking voice, far away in the long halls of the manor behind him. "I'm mad at them, Nightingale. They say I have to go away to school. They don't love me."

 _You’re right, they don't,_ Nightingale said, seeming to pout, but then her little voice piped up. _Hey, I’ve got an idea. Maybe instead of just hiding, you should run away! Just run out into the forest. It's right there. See, Sherlock? Run, and keep running, so far and fast that they'll never find you._

Sherlock looked doubtfully at the dim edge of the trees. "But the forest is so dark. I'm not allowed back there. Dad says I could fall into the ravine. And anyway, I would be all by myself."

 _But you wouldn't be by yourself, stupid,_ Nightingale said, and Sherlock heard the grin in her voice. _‘Cause I'll go with you. Come on, Sherlock, let’s run!_

And the little boy jumped up and sprinted away from the house, into the gathering darkness. 

***

Some years later, Sherlock inserted a slender piece of metal into the flimsy lock and worked it carefully until the hasp sprang free. He banged open the door and walked out onto the forbidden parapet, lifting his face to the driving rain. Good; the water would hide his tears. He stood still for long minutes, leaning against the wall of the wind, until his school clothes were soaked and a stream ran down his back. 

"Nightingale," he croaked to the grey sky.

 _Here, Sherlock,_ Nightingale said in his ear. _Always with you._

"Everyone hates me," Sherlock said flatly, water running into his mouth. "The other boys, my teachers, even the people in the town." He walked slowly to the edge of the parapet, looked out over the hallowed stone buildings of the school, the sporting green, the curving lane and the village beyond. "Weird Sherlock. Ugly Sherlock. Sherlock the freak, whose only safe place is the library. It's pathetic. I'm pathetic!" He slammed scrawny fists against the stones, bent over to howl out his anguish against their uncaring solidity.

 _Of course they hate you. But you always have me, Sherlock,_ Nightingale said. _Never forget. I'll never leave you, always listen when you call._

"How high up we are," Sherlock said, as if realising it for the first time. "How far to fall." His thin face settled into an eerie calm as he looked far, far down to the paving stones below. 

_I'll catch you at the bottom,_ Nightingale said. _I have wings, you know._

"Do you?" Sherlock asked, boosting himself up to stand on the parapet. "How beautiful. Tell me about your wings, Nightingale."

 _They're strong, and swift, and black as night,_ she replied. _And yes, they are beautiful. Come, Sherlock. Don't be lonely any longer. Come fly with me._

"Oy! You boy! Get down from there!" The rough voice sounded behind him, cutting through the rain.

Sherlock whirled, his feet slipping on the edge, but in the next moment the craggy old caretaker had him by the collar. "What're you playin' at? You know you're not allowed up here! Jimmied the lock, did you? For shame! I'll put you before the headmaster for this, boy."

"Nightingale," Sherlock gasped as he was hauled down the stairs, his hands scrabbling uselessly on the passing stones. "Help me, I don't want to leave you---"

 _Don't worry, Sherlock,_ she replied over the caretaker's muttering. Sherlock felt her gentle fingers in the droplets running down his forehead, her warmth in the glow of his wet skin. _I'll always be here for you, whenever you’re ready. Always your kindest friend._

***

More time passed, and then Sherlock was huddled in a tiny room, the cheapest he could find. The bare bulb overhead kept flickering on and off, making him curse with frustration as he fumbled with his kit. Finally, he jumped up and slapped the switch, plunging the room into darkness. A match flared, and Sherlock's wiry form was briefly illuminated before he lit his single candle. 

"Nightingale, I couldn't do it, I couldn't stay away," Sherlock whispered to the candle, whose creamy light touched his face with compassion, making him seem younger than his twenty-five years. "It hurts. I hurt. It's just too hard after...after everything."

 _I know, my dear Sherlock,_ Nightingale said, her breath ghostly against his cheek. _So much strain, so much struggle. And for what reward? An empty, comfortless life, still on the outside looking in? At least your dealer smiled when he saw you. Shook your hand, welcomed you back._

"I know," Sherlock said. "I was...god help me, I was grateful." He passed the back of his hand over his reddened eyes. "I'm so lonely, Nightingale. I can tell you that, can't I?"

_Of course, Sherlock. I've always loved you, you know. No one loves you more than I do._

"Oh, Nightingale," Sherlock said, looking at the little plastic bag with its precious brown powder. "How I wish you were real."

_But I am real, Sherlock. I'm the realest thing there is. Wouldn't you like to see my face?_

"I..." Sherlock licked his lips. "Are you an angel? A demon? God, yes, Nightingale, I want to see you. I want to touch you..."

_I'm neither angel nor demon, but only myself. No more, no less. My beautiful Sherlock._

He sighed and leaned back in the rickety chair, his mouth opening, lifting after her. She was close, he could almost feel her, so close. But---

"Where are you, Nightingale? I can't quite reach you...I keep seeing shadows of wings in the corners of the room, hearing the sound of skin on skin, but always you slip out of reach. Please, Nightingale!"

 _You know exactly where to find me,_ she replied, and Sherlock dropped his eyes to the syringe. _I long for you, Sherlock. Come and meet me here. Kiss me. Touch me...I'm the only one who will let you, you know that, but I...I am the sweetest of them all._ Her voice grew dark with promise.

Trembling, Sherlock mixed the powders with the water, boiled the liquid in the spoon. As he was drawing the dose into the syringe through the wisp of cotton, Nightingale spoke again into his ear, coaxingly. 

_Keep pulling the plunger, Sherlock. Up to the mark you know you adore. Farther, if you're brave enough. And you've always been so brave, Sherlock. It's always thrilled me. And the more you give to yourself, the closer I can hold you. Sherlock, my love, my hero._

Setting his jaw, Sherlock filled the syringe too full, then held out his arm and set the needle to the best vein, the one that popped up under his thin skin. The metal slid inside him, and he watched his blood bloom inside the glass before he slowly, blissfully pressed the plunger. 

And then she was there, his Nightingale. Her mouth on his, dry sweet kisses, her gentle hands all over his body, so deliciously warm. Her legs twining around him, her wings enfolding him, lifting him from the floor to which he'd tumbled uncaring. Sherlock moaned in exultation, burying his hands in her rich hair, looking hungrily into her great round eyes that were every color and none at all. 

"I knew you must be beautiful, Nightingale, but oh, you're lovelier than anything in the world. Carry me, cradle me, I want to give you all I am. My own Nightingale."

 _My love, my heart. This midnight I make you mine forever,_ she whispered as his eyes slid closed in ecstasy. _Don't be afraid...This way, there will be no pain. Never any more pain, my Sherlock._

Dimly, then, a sharp voice and a bang of wood on wood. An impact on his face, painless, no pain, she had promised. "Please, Nightingale," he sighed. "Let's leave this place. Steal away unseen, fade away, forget everything..."

"Ambulance, I need an ambulance in---god---South Kilburn, I think," said his brother's voice from far, far away. "Overdose. Kings' Hotel. Please hurry. Sherlock, you daft idiot. You're lucky I thought to bribe your dealers to alert my people. Stay with me, now." Another impact on his face. 

"Don't want to stay," he murmured. "Nightingale....love you so...don’t...go."

 _I'll always be with you, Sherlock,_ she said as she held him closer than ever, moving against his body, his brother's hands grown meaningless, insubstantial. _I'll never, ever give up on you. Until we are together._

***

“Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one. And then, together, we take our medicine.”

And Sherlock smiled at the cabbie’s words, for again he heard the familiar rushing of her wings. 

Shivering despite his warm coat, Sherlock held the capsule up to the wan fluorescent light. His heart was sounding like thunder in his ears, for his Nightingale was caressing him once more, so alluring and so very, very near. Her wings were moving all around him, their sound roiling deep in his blood. 

“Nightingale.” Sherlock called inward in that moment when his hand began to shake. “You know I want you, always. I ache for you. But now, for the first time, I fear you, just as though you were something to be feared. 

“Tell me something I do not know, my Nightingale,” he said as he moved the capsule toward his parted lips. “Do I hope now to be right, or wrong?”

 _You wish to be right,_ she whispered. _Always. Always so arrogant, my love._ Black feathers filled his skull. 

“But no. That was the wrong question. Better to ask what ‘right’ means to me now,” Sherlock said to the darkness beyond the glare of the ceiling lights. “I’ve come to you, tasted your sweet skin so many times, Nightingale, with nothing between us but my merest, worthless life. But now---”

An inconceivable noise ripped through the air, sounding so much like Nightingale’s voice, full of breaking glass and beauty and pain. And the cabbie fell. Sherlock whirled, and saw then from whence the bullet had flown. 

“---now I may have found something to live for, as strange as that may sound,” Sherlock said. “Soon I will know. Wait for me, Nightingale.”

 _I will do nothing else, my own._

***

Sherlock stood straight, with his friend at his feet, and pointed the gun at Nightingale’s head. Aquamarine light licked at her colorless form, even as red laser spots flickered across his own. And her outstretched, welcoming arms gave the lie to her eyes, still large and round but grown black, shining cold from the face of his enemy. 

_But this is ridiculous, Sherlock,_ Nightingale laughed, her upturned fingers plucking at the damp air. _You cannot kill me. Why, the very idea is a paradox of the most elegant impossibility. My love._

“Get away from me, Nightingale,” Sherlock told her. “You’re a thief, a deceiver.”

_If I am a deceiver, Sherlock, it is only because you have deceived yourself._

“My eyes are open now. You promise bliss and rest in your arms, but you have nothing to give me but oblivion.”

_Oblivion, Sherlock, may be the sweetest thing of all for you. One day._

Sherlock looked away, down into the face of his friend. And remembered one other face---

“No. Not anymore.”

***

The morning wept softly above Sherlock as he stepped up onto the edge of the tall building, utterly out of options. Too many variables, too many. Could he trust those he’d enlisted to save his life? Truly, he trusted none of those people. They could still betray him, could have let themselves be bought by Moriarty. 

No, he trusted one. Completely, with his very soul. That one he could trust to carry the burden of his secret, all alone. But as for the rest of them? 

Illogical, irrelevant. Clearly, now, he had no choice but to trust that they’d save his life.

Lying motionless behind him, Nightingale sang softly to the sky, a gentle smile on her face. Her dead black eyes gazed up at nothing as rain fell between the still lines of her lashes. Blood pooled silently over the rooftop from the ruin of her skull.

 _Sherlock,_ she crooned, so sweetly. _I’m here, my love. Always here. Always ready to catch you at the bottom._

Sherlock exhaled. He would not answer her. 

_You don’t dare ignore me, Sherlock,_ Nightingale sang, just at the edge of his hearing. _I’m close now. So very close. My wings are spread, my arms are open. Ready to welcome you home. Go on. Fly with me now. I’ll follow you down._

“No. This time I’ll defy you, Nightingale,” he said tightly. “Just this once, I’ll fight you, hand to hand, for their sake. And this time, if none other, I will defeat you.”

But when Sherlock stepped off the building into the great emptiness, he heard nothing for one eternal moment but the beating of her wings, the black hiss of her breath against his throat. 

***

Truly, though he’d shunned her, scorned her, his faithful Nightingale had never left him. Sherlock realised it all at once. 

She stood before him now, her beautiful round eyes gone blue as cornflowers as his life began to leak out and stain his white shirt. Smoke curled away from the barrel of her gun, and her sorrowful words ghosted from his hearing. And then her cold, scaly hands were in his hair. 

_My handmaid is coming,_ Nightingale whispered in his ear, just before the lights went down. _Listen to her, and she will guide you to me. So foolish, so loyal, that one._

“No,” Sherlock said, the word pushing Nightingale’s dank perfume out of his mouth. “You lie. I trust her. I trust her with my life.” And Nightingale snarled, and sprang away.

But still she had not truly gone. Still she lay in wait for him, deep below, stealing softly out as the cold and the dark crept over him, as the oxygen ebbed away from his brain. As everything he was began to slip down the black drain-hole in the floor, that hole that had always been there, in the corner of his eye. She spoke to him then, in all her voices. 

_Just die, why don’t you,_ she said, so reasonable. _One little push, and off you pop._

Her wings stirred the air, and now she stroked his brow, his lips, with silken hands. _You’re so weary, Sherlock. Just let go now. You can let everything go, because I have you safe in my arms. I love you, Sherlock. More than anyone has ever loved you._ And Sherlock looked up at her, at her overwhelming beauty, at those tender, empty eyes, and closed his own.

But another part of him spoke then, drowned out Nightingale’s sweet whispers with a call of loyalty, a duty to protect, to honour his vow. And though Nightingale wept bitterly as Sherlock pulled away from her, and though his heart ached to stay with her forever in that breathless, dark place, enfolded in the soft blackness of her wings, Sherlock turned his face upward and climbed, climbed for ten thousand years until again he reached the light.

***

“Another grey day in such an ugly, snowless winter,” Sherlock said to himself as he waited, looking out over the tarmac. “How typically English a day to say all my final goodbyes.”

 _Not quite all. You still have me,_ Nightingale said, looking up at him and slipping her small hand into his. He squeezed her cold fingers, his heart grown quiet.

Like him, she was dressed for a journey, Sherlock saw. For this last journey they’d take together, before she would spread her wings for the final time and bear him away. 

“We’ve come a long way, you and I,” Sherlock said tenderly. “First I loved you, then I lusted for you. I came to fear you, then I fought hard to deny you your triumph. And now...now…”

 _I know,_ Nightingale said, her colorless eyes sober on his. _Now you mourn. Because you’ve come to cherish these people, your friends. And the other one, the one you finally loved, too late._ She gazed sorrowfully up at his stricken face, and he looked away, lest he weep.

 _You’ve come to love this world, Sherlock. You long to know all its secrets, taste all its adventure, hear every story ever told, plunge your hands deep into life and come up with its finest treasures. But you know it cannot be. And because I truly love you, even I wish it were not so. For your sake._ She pressed his hand against her cheek.

“Nightingale. My first and now my only love. You’ve always understood me.”

And Nightingale gave him a watery smile, and bowed her head.

Soon Sherlock’s final farewells were spoken, those moments sliding forever into the gaping void of the past. Sherlock guided Nightingale gently into the small plane, settled her in his lap, cradled her weightless form against his own as they left the world behind. But still he gazed out the little window, clinging with his eyes to the earth.

 _Sherlock, my true love,_ his own beautiful Nightingale breathed against his heart. _I see you, dear. You’re still wishing, wondering. Even though you know now that I’ll never leave your side. Even though you’ve truly realised that someday, all too soon, I’ll take you, lift you away from yourself. Someday we’ll be together, made one for all time. It will happen as surely as the stars themselves will die._

 _But not yet, Sherlock,_ she whispered to Sherlock as he was handed something new, a piece of news, a gift of life and time far more precious than a gold coin. _Not yet._

**Author's Note:**

> For my dear kuraschenie, with love.


End file.
